Table Of Contentcontents
title page
acknowledgments
prologue
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
about the author
copyright
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Marian Bodnar and Justin Rosenholtz for their helpful
suggestions and encouragement after reading the first draft. Special
thanks to my editor, Jodi Keller, whose magical red pen (actually it was a
number two pencil) made a lot of unnecessary material disappear, and to
my publisher, Beverly Horowitz, who believed I could write books for
young readers.
prologue
I’m a trophy kid. You know, a status symbol. I haven’t been in the news
lately, but I’d be surprised if you haven’t heard of me. My adoptive mother is
America’s Sweetheart and Academy Award–winning actress Greta Powell. My
adoptive father is actor turned director, turned producer, turned international
crusader for human rights, turned political candidate Robert Francis. Greta and
Robert won me in a bidding war with eight other high-profile power couples and
a few bachelor billionaires. I still hold the record for the most expensive
adoption: $3.2 million.
It was in Dubrovnik, near the end of the war in Yugoslavia. I was three years
old, holding the hand of my mother, walking to my sister’s school, when several
loud explosions went off around us. One of the blasts seemed to have come from
where my sister’s school was located. My mother pushed me into a doorway and
told me to stay still. She said she would be back in a few minutes with my sister.
I saw her disappear around a corner. The next moment there was an explosion on
the block she had turned onto. I ran into the street after her. The shelling
continued. Something small and sharp hit me just above my right eye and I
started crying. Still I kept running after my mother. A Croatian soldier came into
the street and picked me up. I screamed for my mother as he carried me to
safety. It was all captured on camera and broadcast on news stations around the
world.
I was taken to the nearest military facility. All I could tell the soldiers was my
first name, Josef. They called me Joey. There was an exhaustive search to find
the parents or any relatives of the little blond boy with blue eyes and newly sewn
stitches over his right eyebrow, who had wandered into the street while missiles
were exploding all around him.
Soldiers took turns playing with me and distracting me with ice cream and
chocolates when I cried for my mother. All the while, the cameras rolled.
One morning, two Croatian soldiers took me to the neighborhood where I had
been rescued. Several camera crews tagged along. The soldiers took me door to
door, asking me, “Is this where you live?”
“No,” I said over and over again—until we came to a green apartment
building.
“Mommy!” I said excitedly, running up the inside stairs. At the top was our
apartment. I tried to open the door, but it was locked. One of the soldiers forced
it open.
I ran from room to room looking for my mother. She wasn’t there, of course. I
didn’t call out for my daddy. Only a few days before I ran into the street after my
mother, she had told me that my father was in heaven and wouldn’t be coming
home. He had been an engineer in the army and had been killed when the Serbs
blew up the bridge he was rebuilding. I’ve always liked the fact that my father
was a soldier who built things rather than blew them apart.
After I’d searched every room, I started crying. One of the soldiers took my
hand and led me out of the apartment. I took one look back, just in case my
mother and sister had been playing hide-and-seek and were now going to
surprise me by leaping out of a closet. But they didn’t.
The soldiers took me through the building, asking whoever was at home if
they knew of any relatives my family might have. They shook their heads with
pitiful looks in their eyes.
“Okay, Joey, we’re going back to the base,” one of the soldiers said, placing a
gentle hand on my shoulder.
“Can we go to heaven first?” I asked hopefully.
That’s the line all the news broadcasts focused on. I know, because I’ve
watched the tapes too many times to count.
A British politician and his wife made the first bid to adopt me. Once it got
out that they’d offered the Croatian government $100,000 for me, things started
getting crazy. A Saudi prince, hoping to improve his image after one of his
relatives blew up an embassy, doubled their offer and threw in one of his finest
Arabian horses as a symbol of good intent. A French industrialist who’d made
his fortune exploiting the people and resources of a small third-world country
upped the price to $400,000 and promised another half million to care for other
orphans of the war. There were bids from Japan, Canada, Australia, and
Germany, but the Americans were not to be outdone when it came to generosity.
At least four American couples made offers to adopt me.
Greta Powell and Robert Francis had been featured in tabloid headlines for
months—ever since a paparazzo’s long-distance lens had caught them together
on what they thought was an isolated beach in Thailand. Their spouses weren’t
too happy about it, but Greta and Robert became bigger stars than ever.
Greta and Robert had just returned from their honeymoon in Cancún when
they heard about the British politician’s offer to adopt me. My soon-to-be
parents set their publicity and legal teams in motion. After hundreds of phone
calls to lawyers, ambassadors, ranking members of the U.S. Congress, the UN,
and the Croatian government, plus an appearance on Larry King Live, I was
placed in the custody of just-married Greta Powell and Robert Francis.
Here’s the final deal:
$600,000 to the Croatian government,
$400,000 to orphanages throughout the former Republic of Yugoslavia,
$400,000 to UNICEF,
$800,000 in legal fees,
and a commitment to produce an Orphans of War telethon with no fewer than
fifteen A-list celebrities participating, valued at $1 million.
Total payment for one Croatian orphan: $3.2 million.
This is my true story. How it came to be told began three years ago.
